The craving for tacos can strike at the strangest times.

Soaking in a hot, steaming bubble bath–after a cold, wet mountain bike ride that ended in me (the heroine) riding gallantly down some stairs to crash on pavement so I could avoid hitting the (insolent) little girl who stood (not very smartly) watching and not moving out of my way–I lazily texted friends and family, I thought of what I should do next today. Mow the lawn? Paint the ceiling? Tacos?

Hmmm! Tacos.

Nic was down for taco truck and I was pleased with myself for having inducted another taster to my taco research.

I ventured back into the unseasonably cold June day and the fine mist that had replaced the rain. This time I’d try the truck parked outside Bank of America, in Columbia City. Almost giddy with myself over this new summer project, I walk confidently up to the counter. An older Hispanic man in a cowboy hat pauses his cascade of fluid Spanish to look at my shiny red ballet flats, designer jeans and (probably) overly-eager face and wave me to the window to order, before continuing his conversation with the voice that hides behind jars of jalepeno and Coca Cola.

I look at him, then scan the colorful “Los Primos” concert flyer behind him, then scan the “nuestros dentista” flyer, and then step back to behold a completely menu-less white taco truck wall. The last place had been decked out in multi-lingual menues and pictures. This was like a taco truck sahara! Spanish floats on the air around me, then, behold: a daily special written in light pencil on a college-ruled slip of notebook paper.

Especial: 3 Tacos, $6

I order two from the smiling woman behind the counter.

“That’s it?” she asks.

“Si, es todo,” tumbles from my mouth with an authentic confidence that delights me.

She smiles, we exchange some pleasantries in Spanish and my eyes plead with her to make this good. I don’t know that I can choke down another cardboard asada dinner.

I sit on the picnic table, slowly dissecting the “dentista” flyer. I pull up my pant leg a bit and carefully re-adhere the big bandaid to my oozing red road-rash. I realize the cowboy has stopped talking as he looks from my purse to my leg, and cracks a small smile that looks like something I decide is “appreciative”. Perhaps he’s enjoying the irony too? I flash back a smile, the best I got. He tips his hat, as he walks off into the mist.

A new man walks to the counter. Without hesistation or a look for a menu, he orders two burritos. I nod my head, this is how they do it.

My order is ready, and I cross my fingers…